


Keep My Two Lips Waiting

by orphan_account



Series: My Best Girl [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Crossdressing, Genderfuck, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a hot summer in 1932, and Bucky is sixteen years old when starts to realize that maybe he'd like to doll himself up a bit, here and there. But with Steve already bullied plenty, he can't make it worse on the both of them by getting branded flaming queers, so he does his best to keep it tamped down. </p><p>Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1745402">Cheek to Cheek</a>, in which teenage Bucky hides lipstick under his pillow, discovers how much he likes crossdressing, and has a lot of conflicting feelings. Steve, meanwhile, remains mostly oblivious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep My Two Lips Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, as noted in the summary, this is a prequel to Cheek to Cheek, and is very much Bucky!centric. Features sexual themes regarding a sixteen year old character, so if that's not your thing...
> 
> Shout out to [alpha-lobito](http://alpha-lobito.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for flailing with me about crossdressing Bucky and totally inspiring parts of this fic. And of course, I dedicate this to my Holmesbody, as I dedicate everything.

_Summer, 1932._

 

'Christ, _hold still_ ,' Bucky said around the bobby pins in his mouth. 'I can't do this if you're just going to fidget!' 

Rebecca let out a loud groan, and recrossed her legs on the floor, all adolescent petulance. 'Well, if you didn't keep mucking up sections, we coulda been done ages ago. My ankles hurt, Bucky.' 

'How the hell do you think my knees feel?' Bucky groused, plucking out a small section of his sister's hair, and winding it tightly around two fingers before pinning it into place. It wasn't so bad. They had already done over half of her head, although it had taken longer than it probably should have. Steve was sitting on Bucky's bed in a vest and school shorts, reading a paper back, and half watching Bucky pin-curl Rebecca's hair. He was spending the night at Bucky's place, as he usually did when his mother worked the double shift at the factory. 

The evening was weighty with heat, the air clinging to their skin with the cloying humidity. Bucky was shirtless, and Rebecca was in her nightgown, but still the heat was oppressive and stifling. 

'Anyway, I shouldn't even be doing this,' Bucky said, unnecessarily. He always put up a token fight when Rebecca asked him to help her with pin-curling, but since their mother had passed on he knew that there was nothing he wouldn't do for his sister if it filled some of that space her loss had left in the both of them. 'Going out all dolled up, you'll have fellas starting to look your way if we're not careful.' 

'That wouldn't be so bad,' Rebecca mused, and earned herself a disapproving sound from Bucky. 

'Don't be stupid, Becca,' he snapped, 'you're _thirteen_.' 

Not looking up from his book, Steve snorted from the bed, and Bucky shot him a warning glare. Bucky knew that Steve was perfectly – possibly a bit too vividly – aware that Bucky had smooched Gracie Fairfield behind the housing tenement when he was pretty much precisely Rebecca's age, and had even got his hand under her shirt. _But Rebecca wasn't allowed to know that_. 

'Can it, Steve,' Bucky said, glancing over at his friend, who was shaking his head at him in amusement. With slim fingers, Steve turned the page on his book and made a motion of zipping his mouth closed. Bucky twirled another strand of hair around his fingers, and tugged a pin out from between his teeth. 'Nearly done,' he said to Rebecca, and quickly wiped some of the sweat off his brow with his forearm. 

'I need to practice doin' it myself,' Rebecca said, fidgeting her fingers in her lap. 'I got the front no problem, but the ones at the back always go wrong.' 

'You gotta work from the bottom up,' Bucky replied. 'And get them in nice and tight so they don't fall out.' 

Steve piped up from the bed, ' _Your_ hair is getting pretty long, Bucky.' 

Bucky shrugged. A haircut was only two bits, but even that was tight at the moment, so yeah. His hair was getting a little shaggier than usual. 'What of it?' 

'I could practice on you!' Rebecca said with teasing excitement. 

'Sure,' replied Bucky dryly as he pinned the last section of his sister's hair into place, and looked over her hair for any loose strands. 'If I didn't have to go to school tomorrow, or you know, ever show my mug outside again.'

'Aw, come on, Bucky,' she pleaded. She turned around to look at him imploringly, but he nudged her head back again immediately, grabbing the silk scarf off the bed next to Steve's feet to wrap around the curls. 

'Nope,' he said, the word coming out a bit unclear as he took the last couple of pins out of his mouth to secure the scarf in place. 

'They'll come out right away with a bit of water,' she urged, and Steve piped up from the bed: 'Just let her do it, what's the harm?' 

Bucky just rolled his eyes. 'Nope, I'm not sleeping on a head fulla metal spikes.' 

'It's not so bad,' Rebecca said. 'And they're not _spikey_. Come on, Buck--' she drew out the word into a long whine, finally spinning around to clasp her hands together pleadingly and look at him entreatingly. 'Don't make me beg.' 

'You're already begging, Becca,' Bucky replied. 'And its not befitting. You're not a little kid anymore.' But he could already feel his resolve crumbling, because he knew if their mother was still alive, she'd be sitting patiently on the floor already while Rebecca set to work on her hair, even if it meant going out the next day with messy, uneven curls. 

Catching Steve's gaze was the last straw. His friend looked at him like he'd be sincerely disappointed in him if he didn't submit to his sister's appeal. There was very little that he couldn't stomach more than disappointing Steve. 

He sighed. 'Fine,' he said, and couldn't help but grin when Rebecca whooped and dashed off to get more pins. 'You're a real pally,' he groused at Steve, who was now just using his paper back to fan himself from the heat and leaning against the cool wall.

'I think you need to wet your hair,' Steve pointed out. 'Should keep you nice and cool at least?' 

That, at least, was a fair point, and Bucky pushed himself to his feet to head into the bathroom and dunk his head into the sink. 

Before long, he was sitting with his back against the base of the bed, and Rebecca kneeling up behind him on the mattress with Steve, tugging his hair into tight curls. Even if it was longer than usual, there wasn't really more than five inches to Bucky's hair at its longest, but his sister was managing just fine, pushing his head forward and tugging at his roots just a little harder than necessary when Bucky chose to grouse about being a toy doll. 

Steve was being helpful at least, fanning Bucky's bare chest with his book here and there, and blowing on his neck when droplets of water rolled down from his damp hair. Bucky let out a sigh as the water chilled against his skin. 

Finally, Rebecca decided that she was pleased with her work, and pinned the last curl into place triumphantly. 'Aw, so pretty Bucky,' she cooed. 

'I hate you,' he replied without heat, and grinned at her as she jumped off the bed over his head. 

'I'll find you a scarf,' she said, heading towards the door. 

Bucky just laughed. 'Hell no, I'm not wearing a silk headdress on top of all this. I'm guessing you're not going to let me just take these out now, are you?' 

' _Hell no_ ,' Rebecca imitated. 'I need to see how they come out in the morning.' 

Bucky groaned, but just said, 'Alright.' He tried to sound long suffering, but yeah, no. Rebecca was happy, her own hair all wrapped up, and if nothing else at least the curls _were_ helping him cool off a little in the sweltering, sweltering heat. 'Anyway, you need to get off to bed, Becca.' 

She scrunched up her face. 'You and Steve aren't going to bed yet.' 

'Me and Steve are sixteen, knucklehead. Get.' 

Rebecca grumbled a bit (and he heard a muttered, ' _Don't lie to me, I know Steve is only fifteen..._ ') but she did head out of Bucky's bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her. 

'I'm kinda ready for bed, actually,' Steve said around a wide yawn, then he grinned down at Bucky with sleepy eyes. 'You're cute as a bugs ear like that, Bucky,' he teased, and Bucky swatted him on the knee. 

'Seriously, shut it. She's my sister.' 

'Yeah, I know,' Steve replied, suddenly sounding really serious, and Bucky glanced at him as he stood up. He had that face on: that earnest, open face that always made Bucky feel warm inside when it was directed at him. 'I'm really proud of you, how you've been with her since...' 

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. 'It's nothing,' he said honestly, and shed his school shorts, tossing them onto the dresser beside the bed so he was down to just his briefs. 'Tonight is going to be sticky.' 

'Is that as far as the window opens?' Steve asked as he shucked off his shorts as well. Even on nights as hot as this, Bucky had noticed that Steve always, unfailingly, slept in his vest. 

'Swell, ain't it?' Bucky grumbled and turned out the light, throwing himself down onto the bed next to Steve. They had a standard sleeping arrangement for nights like this: Steve got the wall, because he liked to be able to lean against the cool plaster, and Bucky slept out the outside because he liked to be able to hang half off the bed when the heat became too much. 

Sleep came like a fidgeting, elusive thing, difficult to pinpoint and defined by sweat-damp sheets and the points where their bodies would touch and grow searingly hot. 

Bucky woke up tired the next morning, and Steve slept on right on (limbs splaying out and face buried into the hot pillow) as he pulled himself up and headed to the bathroom. At least the head full of pins had probably been the _least_ uncomfortable thing about the roasting night. 

Eyes blurry with sleep, Bucky looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He splashed water on his face, still tepid from the heated pipes. Some of the pin-curls had loosened a little, he noticed, but for the most part, everything had stayed in place, curled in two neat rows down from the part Rebecca had made on the right side of his hair. He dried his face on a hand towel and then, curious, began to unpin the curls. The house was still quiet: Steve wouldn't wake up until Bucky went in and kicked him in the head, most likely, and his dad and Rebecca didn't need to get up _just_ yet, although they would soon. 

He started on the bottom curls, and didn't look in the mirror as he took them out, tilting his head down and pulling them out one by one with his fingers. After a minute or so, he had a handful of pins and his hair was completely unconstrained. He lifted his head to look in the mirror, ready to laugh at himself for looking ridiculous. 

His breath caught in his throat. He didn't look ridiculous. He thought he looked _lovely_. The way the curls had been affixed, the hair on either side of his part sat neat and straight, and then quickly curled into tight wavey ringlets that framed his face. It wasn't a style that could look passably masculine – if anything, he thought he looked like the old silver screen starlets he'd seen in movies when he was a kid. The ones with the neat curls and bee-stung lips and wide, dark eyes. 

Suddenly entranced, Bucky pressed his lips hard together, and bit into the soft flesh until they came up bruised and dark. He pinched his cheeks, pulling patches of color into them on his cheekbones. It wasn't the same – gave nothing more than a passing impression of darkened lips and painted cheeks, but it was enough to pique his interest. He liked the way he looked, and turned his head from left to right with a smile that he could read on his own face, and it concerned him. 

He _wanted_ to see if he could finish the illusion – color his lips, lengthen his lashes and darken his eyes. The urge was overwhelming, and impossible. Impossible for so many reasons. 

Forcefully, he tore his eyes away from his reflection, and turned on the faucet. He wet his hands and combed them through his hair, straightening out the curls and slicking it back into its usual style. He told himself he was going to dig up a quarter somehow today and get a haircut after school, and tried not to feel guilty that Rebecca wouldn't get to see the product of her work. 

*

Bucky wasn't ignorant. He knew what fairies were, and he knew that liking to make himself look like a dame was, well. But _he_ wasn't. For as long as he could remember, he'd had at least some vague inkling that they – and it was a distant, impersonal _they_ , not something with which he'd ever be personally associated – existed. The perverted, flamboyant, mincing, inverted fellas. The fellas who wanted to be dames, who _were_ dames, or were actually somewhere in between, a bisexual, indeterminate creature, depending on who you asked. 

That's not what Bucky was, he reminded himself. He didn't want to be a dame, that was just off base. He wasn't a queenie, he liked gals. He'd always liked gals: liked the shape of them, the feel of them, the touch of them. And he was a masculine guy. He got into fights, he took girls out on the town and gave it to them somewhere semi-private after. He did whatever manual labor he could on weekends and school breaks to try and keep a bit of extra coin in his pocket, and he's spent plenty of time on his dad's army base, and sometimes the military was where he felt most at home. And he _liked_ all these things about himself, and felt no desire to be anything different. 

Except. Except he couldn't stop thinking about somehow pocketing some lipstick and seeing how it looked. Couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to wear a skirt, and thick, beaded dazzling necklaces. He'd gotten his hair trimmed down, and found he immediately regretted it: wanted to have it grow out long enough that he could curl it and have the curls peek out from under a little rounded hat with a ribbon and embroidered trim. 

He knew there was little worse he could do than actually _going through_ with any of it, so he kept his trap zipped and did his best to let the urges die down. It was just a passing fancy, is all it was. 

Except. Except it wasn't. 

*

He heard them before he saw them. 

'Holy _shit_ , is the little pansy seriously getting up _again_?!' 

'I told you, he's always been a sissy who can't take his beat down.' 

Bucky skidded around the corner, and was met with an unsurprising sight. Steve, blood dripping from his nose, was pushing himself up, bracing himself against the wall of the school building, and was raising his fists, getting ready to take a swing at the three boys gathered around him. The boys were cracking their knuckles and necks, ready to put him down. Again. 

'Hey!' Bucky said, grabbing one of them by the back of his collar and spinning him around so that his fist could crack satisfyingly into his face. He wanted to say 'pick on someone your own size', but the kid in question wasn't actually that much bigger than Steve. But he had a wiry, scrappy physique that spoke of fighting dirty and disguised strength, which was a step above Rogers, who, in all honesty, had a physique that spoke of 'probably already being dead if it weren't for modern medicine' and 'lungs that should probably be relocated to somewhere with cleaner air'. 

Regardless, the guy's nose shattered beneath Bucky's fist, and he fell to his knees quick as look at you. The other two weren't much more hassle to chase off, and Steve even got a good kick in to one of the guy's shins, which was something. 

As he limped off, the one with the broken nose just muttered, 'Good thing your bodyguard showed, fairy.'

Bucky felt anger boil inside him. He was sorely tempted to trip the guy up into the pavement, but Steve was crouched over and bleeding profusely, and that always came first. 

'I can't believe they'd talk about you like _that_ ,' Bucky spat as he knelt down next to Steve, pulling his slender hand away from his face to take a look at his nose. 

'Ow,' Steve just said as Bucky poked and prodded at his face. 

'I don't think its broken,' he said. 'Hell, Steve, those dogface mooks don't know what they're talking about.' 

' _Ow_ , I think – Bucky, stop it – I think the punching, you know, was hurting worse than the words, to be honest.' 

Bucky simmered. 'They were callin' you a fairy. You're a goddamn firecracker, Steve, they got no business--' 

'Let's just get home, yeah?' Steve interjected, frowning. Bucky pressed his lips together. He couldn't help but think it wasn't fair, it wasn't right that people would target that sort of abuse at Steve – Steve who was a burning fire, who was something that spat and boiled over when he wasn't all earnest smiles and helping out anyone he could, and beautiful, intricate drawings of the skyline from his bedroom window. It wasn't _Steve_ who was a fairy. 

It wasn't Bucky, either. But it didn't seem right that people would target that language at him when it was Bucky that more likely deserved it.

He helped Steve up, and pulled an old handkerchief out of his pocket, pressing it to Steve's nose. 'How 'bout I get you a soda?' Bucky asked as they wandered off, Steve tilting his head back to try and stem the bleeding. 'For that kick you got in at the end there.'

'Got money for a soda?' Steve asked, his voice muffled and nasal. 

'Do I got money for a soda?' Bucky scoffed, fiddling around in his pockets for any loose change. 'What kinda stupid question is that? Would I get you one if I didn't have the dough?' 

They both knew that the answer was yes, probably. 

*

They bought a Coke from a little trundling drinks stand, and shared it while sitting on the stone steps outside a closed shop. It was still stiflingly hot, and they passed the Coke bottle between them, holding it to their necks in turn in an effort to cool off. 

'Why'd you get so upset at them calling me those things, Buck?' Steve asked after a while. Bucky looked down at his shoes. 

'Why'd you think? You know I can't stand to see people picking on you like that.' 

'But you know it don't matter what they call me, right?' 

Bucky frowned, shaking his head. 'Of course it matters,' he said. _Of course it did_. Because those guys wouldn't know a thing about what a fairy looked like if they got whacked on the head with one. It wasn't Steve. _It wasn't Steve_.

Steve was quiet for a moment before just muttering, 'Bucky?' 

'Mm?' 

'Are you trying to, protect me from-- Do _you_ think I'm...?' 

Bucky started, nearly dropping the half empty Coke bottle onto the pavement. 'No! Hell no!' 

'Because I can see why,' Steve paused, thinking. 'I'm not like _you_ , Bucky. I've never been with a dame, never even kissed one. I can't work like you, the only skill I'll ever be able to sell is drawin', and that's a long shot.' 

'That's enough, Steve,' Bucky replied, shaking his head. 'Enough talking like that. We both know you're being stupid. I don't think, didn't for a moment think that those bullies weren't doing anything other then talking out of their behinds.' 

Steve just sighed. 'Alright,' he said. 'Pass the Coke over.' 

The bloodied handkerchief was still clenched in his other hand, but his nose had stopped dripping red, and now it was just bruised and starting to swell up. Bucky balanced the cool base of the Coke bottle against the bridge of Steve's nose, and he laughed. 

'That's better actually,' he said. 

*

A couple of weeks later, Bucky took a girl out on a date. His dad was out on maneuvers, so Bucky ended up bringing the girl, Lena Madison, back home and making Rebecca swear to secrecy. There wasn't much to say after that. He got her into bed, but she shrank away after Bucky started slipping his hand up under her skirt, and he didn't push. 

He walked her home at about eleven thirty, and she gave him a peck goodbye before disappearing into her apartment building. For one reason or another, Bucky never saw Lena again. 

But she did leave a tube of _Kissproof_ red lipstick on his bed by accident. Bucky took it in his hand, holding it tightly. He wondered whether he should try to return it, but instead just uncapped the lid and slid the color across the pad of his thumb, watching the way it stained his skin. Heart thudding in his chest, he capped it again and hid it in his pillowcase. He wasn't sure if he was brave enough to put it on yet, but he had a sinking, shivering, pounding feeling that he was going to. 

*

Steve was Bucky's best friend. That was obvious, common knowledge. If one of them was mucking up in class, the nuns always shouted at both of them. Even Bucky's own father accidentally called him Steve, sometimes, by accident. They were basically one person, as far as everyone was concerned, even with all their differences, and for as long as they'd known each other, they'd shared everything. 

They shared beds, they shared soda, they shared their fractured families, Bucky shared what he could of his girls with Steve (stories, mostly, to live vicariously through, and sisters or friends when he could drag them on universally unsuccessful double dates). 

And it was eating him up inside to keep something from Steve.

Right now, it was killing Bucky because Steve was stretched out on his bed, head on the pillow that still hid that little tube of red lipstick, and Bucky was having a silent Princess and the Pea themed freak out from where he was trying to look casual at the other end of the mattress, homework open in his lap. 

Any moment, Steve could feel the little tube through the down of the pillow, and pull it out without thinking. And Bucky still hadn't even tried painting on the lipstick. He got the urge frequently – daily, really. Hourly, even – but had managed to tap it down every single time so far. But he knew that if Steve found it, he'd have to shrug it off somehow with a 'oh, what do you know, who left that there?', and would throw it away or give it to Rebecca, and he'd be too embarrassed to ever even consider wearing it again. 

He couldn't concentrate on his school work. 

'How about we give up?' he said finally, trying to just sound casually bored. 'I can finish this later. We'll make some dinner instead.'

Steve was throwing a Bucky's baseball into the air and catching it, his own homework sitting closed and completed next to him. 'Have you finished all the questions?' 

Bucky rolled his eyes. 'I can do it later. Just... just get up, yeah?' 

'You're not copying off me,' Steve said, and missed the ball. It fell onto his forehead with a thunk. 'Ouch,' he said, and went right back to tossing it in the air. 

'I know, Steve, jeez, you made that clear,' Bucky whined, still sitting tense on the bed. He slept on that pillow every night. He knew you could feel the little lipstick tube through the padding as often as not. 

He hated keeping secrets from his friend, but what was worse, what was _so much_ worse was the idea of Steve finding out about Bucky's budding inclinations and distancing himself from him. And what else could Steve do? He was already targeted enough as a pansy, a sissy boy. If it came out that Bucky kinda liked thinking of himself in women's clothes, with women's hair, wearing makeup and heels and the whole kit and caboodle...

If that came out, and it was still them, ' _Steve and Bucky_ ', the one, interchangeable person... what would that do for them? The bullying against Steve would only get worse (never mind himself, not when there was Steve to think about), and Bucky couldn't live with himself if he made life harder on Steve. He was there to help, not get them both branded as flaming queens. 

Steve dropped the ball on his face again.

'Fine,' he said, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. Bucky felt relief wash through him. 'But after dinner, you're finishing it, Buck. It's just long division. It's not the end of the world.' 

It's not the end of the world, Bucky told himself. It's not. 

*

He wasn't sure whether it was better to say he worked up the courage or lost his resolve, but either way. Bucky knew there was a part of town where he could stop in a thrift shop and pick up a dress without getting much more than a raised eyebrow and maybe a wink, and as the summer wore on he found himself walking through that part of town more and more often. 

He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. The word was that if you started getting recognized as a frequenter of the neighborhood, it stuck to you like malodor. Basically every time Bucky walked home this way, he got propositioned by some fella cruising about the area, but he always just kept his head down. His hands in his pockets. 

There were rooming houses, and cafeterias where queers would gather and mingle, and Bucky knew which ones they were – they weren't exactly hiding. And there were plenty of fairies, painted and powered on the streets, making Bucky feel self conscious. Whenever he saw them, all damed up in their duds, Bucky had to fight the urge to stop and stare and maybe, maybe just _ask_. 

Ask what, he wasn't quite sure. He just knew he was curious, and confused, and the balloon of secrecy expanded in him, stretching him taut and stifling his breaths every day. He just wasn't used to not sharing things with Steve. 

Finally, one afternoon, things slipped into a sudden, irresistible place of opportunity. 

First, Bucky's father was on maneuvers again, and wouldn't be back for a few more days. Second, Bucky had won a bet with a guy at school and had a few extra coins in his pocket. Third, Rebecca had cornered him as he'd been leaving the school building, and begged to spend the night at her friend's place. 

'What am I?' Bucky had asked, shrugging. 'Your minder?' and Rebecca had hugged him and run off. 

And finally, and rarest of all, Steve wasn't with him and wouldn't be coming over any time in the evening. For once, his mother actually had the whole evening off from her job at the garment factory, and they were going to see a film. Some murder mystery, Steve had said, that he'd overheard the twist for in class. He'd just grinned and added: 'But ma doesn't need to know that.' 

So Bucky had the afternoon, evening, night and house entirely to himself. As soon as he realized this, it clicked. He was going to do it. It wasn't a choice, it was a compulsion – he _needed_ to, at least the once. At first he thought he'd just do the lipstick, doll up his face a little with what make-up Rebecca had in her room that he could steal without her noticing. But then Bucky thought of Steve, and the way the little guy never went half-hog, and realized he had to at least _try_ to get himself a dress, too. 

It wasn't hard. He went into a thrift shop on his way home, just opposite one of those cafeterias where he could see a crowd of camp queens sitting around a center table, and bought the first thing he saw. The dress cost him four bits and had a slight stain on the hemline. It was cobalt blue with large white flowers printed on the fabric, elbow length sleeves and a thin belt at the waist. 

'It's for my sister,' Bucky said as the clerk wrapped it in brown paper and tied it up, giving him a skeptical look. As he stepped outside, one of the queens on the other side of the road caught his eye, and tipped his hat. Bucky kept his head down, and hurried home, the dress in his arms and his breath scratching at the back of his throat. 

He'd done it. That was all he could think as he shut the door behind him and checked the whole house, making sure he was definitely, absolutely alone. He'd done it. This wasn't indulging his sister in pin-curling his hair. This wasn't a girl leaving her lipstick on his bed and not throwing it out. This wasn't passive. This was actively going out and buying a dress with the absolute intention to wear it. He'd done it. 

With shaking fingers, Bucky stripped off his shirt, then paused. Rebecca's room first. She wasn't really meant to have cosmetics: their father didn't like it at her age, but she had a secret stash and Bucky knew where it was. He didn't want much – she'd probably notice if much powder went missing – but he figured he could get away with taking the tube of mascara. 

He felt a bit like a magpie as he gathered up his trinkets. The dress, the tube of lipstick, Rebecca's mascara. All of them taken together into the bathroom as his heart pounded in his ears. Looking in the mirror, he wished his hair was longer. It was cut short at the sides, and only slightly longer on top, pushed back loosely off his face. Shirtless, he surveyed himself, glad that at least his cheeks were still soft and smooth. Fumbling on the button, he dropped out of his trousers, and, after a moment of consideration, his briefs too. 

Naked, he felt masculine. His cock was already hanging heavy with interest, excitement at what he was going to do. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and picked up the blue and white dress. 

'You can do it, Bucky,' he told himself. 'It's just a goddamn frock.' 

He pulled it over his head, got it caught around his armpits. For a moment, he had a stabbing moment of uncertainty that maybe it simply _wouldn't fit_ , but he wriggled his head up through the neck of the dress and began shuffling the dress down his body, and everything slipped into place, and it did. It fit just fine. 

Bucky was still pretty svelte at sixteen. Nothing like Steve, of course, and he was pretty tall. But he hadn't broadened out on the chest and shoulders yet, and the dress sat quite comfortably, _prettily_ in place. He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned, smiling again like he had at his reflection when he'd had the pin-curls. He just looked _nice_ , he liked the way he felt with the dress skimming just past his knees and a flush crawling up his cheeks making him look warm and demure and sweet. 

This time, alone for the evening, he didn't fight his pleased grin away, and instead picked up the mascara between his fingers. Pulling the brush out, he felt his eyes begin to itch preemptively, and blinked them a few times. He'd seen girls doing this before, and they made it look pretty easy, but still. Bucky leaned in close to their small, dusty mirror, and lifted the little black brush up close to his eye, lips parting automatically. 

Steady. Hand steady. Don't poke yourself in the eye, he told himself. The brush was hovering close to his lashes, and his eyes were still itching a little bit and coming up close to watering. He blinked. The brush caught on his lashes, coating them in the dark mascara. Oh, he thought, that wasn't so bad. Bringing the brush closer to the roots of his lashes, he blinked again, and then did the other eye. 

Bucky regarded himself in the mirror. Simultaneously, it wasn't a huge difference, but it was also striking. His eyes stood out, framed by his already long lashes which were now thick and dark as well. He blinked a few times, trying out batting them, and just, couldn't wipe the smile off his face. 

Next, he picked up the tube of lipstick, uncapping it. At first, he thought this would be the easy part, but a disastrous first attempt proved him otherwise. The deep red smeared out over the lines of his lips, smudged and making him look more like the shoddy camp act he'd never wanted to be. Washing it off, he tried again, more carefully. 

This time, he took it slow, dragging the lipstick over his lips as cleanly and slowly as he needed to, and eventually he got it just right. The lines were sharp, shapely, and the color vibrant, making his lips look striking. Bucky knew he already had a nicely shaped mouth. Girls often commented on it, and those times that he'd been propositioned down towards the docks it had often been made a focal point. 

He stepped back, trying to see his whole body in the mirror. The illusion wasn't perfect. He didn't have soft curves, or the shapely, nyloned legs of a dame. He didn't have the hair either, that was for sure. But nonetheless, as he surveyed himself, an odd sense of calm came over him. He'd expected to feel thrilled and titillated, and yeah, there was a little bit of that buzzing beneath his skin, but mostly he just felt really, really nice. Pretty. Cute as a bug's ear, as Steve had said. 

He spun on the spot, and the skirt fluttered and turned with him. He wasn't quite sure, after a moment of just looking at his lips and his eyes and the way the dress sat on his slim hips, why he'd been so scared to do this. 

It was nothing. 

*

Bucky had no idea what to do with himself once he was dressed up. There was a thrum of arousal tingling on the edge of his consciousness, but it wasn't pressing, overwhelmed just by his feeling of satisfaction and quietude. 

After just staring at himself, looking at his reflection from all angles and spending a little too long experimenting with poise and expressions which emphasized his wide, dark eyes, Bucky finally decided to just head into the kitchen and make his dinner. Since it was just himself, and he didn't want to waste food, he just heated up a can of baked beans and had them with a couple of slices of toast. Although he felt oddly relaxed -- a quiet thrum of interest spun into even the most mundane tasks, like cooking beans and eating while sitting there in his pretty little dress -- he couldn't help but also be constantly aware of his surroundings. Here and there, he imagined hearing a key turning in the lock, and froze up for a moment, listening closely as he imagined Rebecca coming home early, perhaps having had another argument with her friend Bessie. Or pa coming home a few days sooner than expected, for whatever reason. Or even Steve barreling inside as if he lived here himself. Bucky couldn't decide which of the scenarios would be the most disastrous.

But none of those things happened. He was completely, totally, liberatingly alone. He cleaned his plate, and the pot on the stove, and left them to dry on the bench. 

Then Bucky found himself on his bed. The urge to touch himself, just _explore_ while he felt so dolled up and pretty had been growing for a while, but he wasn't entirely conscious of it until he was throwing himself back on the mattress and running his hands up his thighs, over the fabric, pulling it up, up so that it slid, slick over his skin. His cock was hard, curved up against the flat of his stomach, but he ignored it. 

He took his time, ghosting his fingers over his legs, hips, stomach, chest, and up his neck to touch at his own mouth, drag his finger on his painted lip and have it come away stained. He closed his eyes. 

Bucky thought about the way he touched girls, the things they liked when he trailed his fingers over their soft breasts, padding his thumbs over their nipples until they were tight and pert. He thought about their soft gasps, and let out a breathy moan of his own as he explored his body, still through the smooth rayon fabric of the dress. He thought about skimming his fingers up dames thighs, and squeezing his fingers into their soft warm flesh. He pushed the dress up, and thought about kissing his way down their stomachs, feeling their skin quiver with unsteady breaths. 

He thought about pressing his fingers into their wet heat, and in turn slipped his own hand down, down until his fingertip pressed against the tight entrance there, and his brows furrowed. He wasn't wet like a dame, of course, so to make do he brought his hand up to his mouth, pressing his fingers in past his painted lips and sucked on them until they were slick with saliva. It wasn't as good, he thought as he pressed his finger back against his hole, pushing in past the tight ring of muscle. His body tightened up against the intrusion, but as he relaxed he decided it felt, if a little strange, not unpleasant. 

He just used one finger for the time, pushing it in slowly, slowly deeper inside himself one knuckle to the next. 

He thought about what it was like, pushing into a gal's warm, wet channel, and as his finger pushed further into him he felt a surprising spark of pleasure, his cock twitching and leaking from where it was straining, ignored against his stomach. He pressed deeper inside himself, searching with his finger again for that spot that had triggered the sudden pulse of pleasure. He keened down into his own touch, back arching, and wondered if this was like how it was for girls when he pressed his cock deep inside them and made them squirm and moan. 

Oh, he _liked_ this. He liked this feeling. He wished he was wetter, slicker, so that he could press more fingers inside, stretch himself out further and push in deeper. He realized slowly that he was letting out breathy, wanton sounds from his lips, his tongue darting out to dampen them and probably smearing and thinning the lipstick. He didn't care. 

He thought about what it was like to sink his cock into the tight, soaking heat of a gal's pussy and thought, panting with his face turned into his pillow, _oh_ how he'd like to share that feeling. Have someone sink into him like that, make him see stars when they press oh, _oh, just there_. 

Bucky surprised himself by whimpering as he pushed his finger inside himself, and quickly rolled over on the bed, repositioning his arm so he could finger himself forcefully and hit that sweet spot every time. Like this, his cock was caught between his abdomen and the fabric of the dress, sliding smoothly against the mattress as he canted his hips, and he gasped as he suddenly found himself on the edge of coming. 

His mind was a mess of thoughts, abstracted and dual-bodied. But the one thing, clear in his mind as he chased his orgasm, rutting against the mattress and plunging his finger inside himself was just how much he needed to have someone do this to him, pulse deep inside him, _come_ inside him. He wanted to share it, share his body, share everything with--

Steve. Always Steve. 

He came, his cock releasing and pulsing into the fabric of his dress, and his body tightening up. He could feel himself squeezing tight around his finger, where the pad of his fingertip was pressed right against that unbelievable spot that made him see stars. 

He collapsed into the mattress, not bothering to clean himself up, and almost passed out, eyes fluttering gently shut and mascara smudged.

*

'Why are we walking this way?' Bucky asked, pausing in his step as they started approaching the familiar area. The air hung heavy with the smell of salt from the docks. 

Steve glanced at him with a bemused grin. 'I told you,' he said. 'Thomas says there's a place up here I can get a new set of Aqua Pastels for only five cents.'

'Uh, yeah, okay,' Bucky replied, putting his hands in his pockets and following Steve down the rough street. 'Maybe cheaper if you trade them for giving the guy behind the counter a suck job.'

Steve swatted him on the arm. 'Shut up, Bucky.'

'I just didn't realize we were going down _this_ way.'

'What's wrong with this way?'

Bucky let out a coughed laugh. 'You're not that naive, Steve.'

'Apparently I am,' Steve shrugged, shooting Bucky a skeptical look. 'You seriously sayin' you won't come down this way because the neighborhood is a little queer?'

 _No_ , Bucky thought, _I'm saying I don't wanna come down this way in case I get recognized._

But he said: 'I'm just worried for you, punk. You're so little, and pretty. Don't wanna see you getting propositioned by big burly sailors, okay?'

'Might be a good way to make back the nickel,' Steve mused, as they wandered down the street, and it was Bucky's turn to swat him over the head. But he followed Steve on through the streets, relaxing a little. It wasn't like he was out cruising here every night, or sitting in the cafeterias all evening, or nothing. He just liked to wander this way home when he wasn't with Steve, and had, on a couple more occasions since the first time, bought a skirt or some cheap jewelry in the thrift stores. It wasn't so bad. 

And there was an arts supplies shop, and it did sell the pastels Steve wanted, and he didn't even have to give anyone head behind the counter to get them. 

They left with Steve looking happy – it wasn't often he got new drawing things, mostly just worked with the cheapest charcoal – and wandered back through the streets the way they came. The air was still heavy and salty, but there was also a cool breeze from the water, chasing away some of the stifling heat of the summer. 

It wasn't so bad. They passed a group of fairies sitting in the front window of one of the cafeterias, and Bucky thought of the worst things that could happen. Them leering and winking at Steve, propositioning him. Propositioning _Bucky_. Or recognizing Bucky, with a ' _Hey, I've seen you around here, pip_!' But that's not what happened. They were having their own conversation, oblivious to Steve and Bucky passing. Naturally. 

That is, until one of the group made a wild gesture while articulating, and knocked the salt shaker off the table and out onto the street. And Steve, being Steve, bent down and picked it up, passing it back with a happy smile and a ' _no problem, don't worry about it_!' as he was thanked (possibly profusely) by a group of dolled up and powdered fairies having coffee.

Bucky grinned, nudging Steve back on his way. 

'C'mon, home,' he prompted, 'we've already wasted enough time on you this afternoon, I need to copy from your problems.'

He ignored Steve's indignant huff and his, 'Uh, _no_ , no, you're finishing them yourself.' 

No, they just kept walking, tasting the cool breeze, and Bucky just thought to himself; _it wasn't so bad._


End file.
